The path that followed the Vault was different.
Not broken.
Not corrupted.
Just… forgotten.
The ground wasn’t stone, but petrified ash. The trees that lined the corridor grew upside down from the ceiling, their roots dripping golden sap. The air tasted of metal and incense.
Makardvach felt it instantly.
A tug.
Not on his skin.
On his breath.
Like his lungs recognized this place before his mind did.
“It’s close,” Rishabh whispered. “I can feel the mudra.”
“What mudra?” Akshay asked, checking his sensors.
Rishabh raised one hand, fingers forming an ancient seal of devotion. “The First Oath.”
Megha’s eyes widened. “The one Hanuman gave to Ram?”
Rishabh shook his head. “No. The one he gave to himself. To never forget who he was—no matter how much power he gained.”
They reached the temple.
It wasn’t grand. No gold. No steps. Just a hollow tree grown into a dome, its roots forming twisted archways and skeletal pillars. Inside: a single dais. A basin of still water. And carvings—so old they no longer belonged to language.
Makardvach stepped in first.
The gada pulsed once.
The staff hummed.
The moment his foot touched the dais, the water rippled—then stilled.
Then reflected not his face… but another.
Hanuman.
Young.
Fierce.
Cloaked in shadow and flame.
His eyes were closed. His chest bore the seal of Ram’s name. But it wasn’t a statue.
It was living memory.
A recorded piece of soul.
Kept here for one purpose.
To test.
To judge.
As Makardvach stepped closer, the reflection opened its eyes.
“You have not bled enough to wear my name.”
The air shifted.
The water rose.
And the room began to change.
Makardvach turned—
His friends were gone.
The temple was gone.
Only the echo remained.
And the Trial had begun.
He stood beneath a sunless sky.
The ground cracked like old clay, littered with broken arrows. And across the horizon—a city burned.
Lanka.
But not in triumph.
In ruin.
Hanuman knelt amidst the ash.
Not glorious.
Not radiant.
Not divine.
His fur was matted with blood. His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something heavier than war. In his hands, a torn cloth—bearing Ram’s seal.
“I saved her…” he whispered. “But I couldn’t save the promise.”
Makardvach said nothing. He didn’t yet understand.
Hanuman looked up. His eyes were red.
Not with rage.
With grief.
“They tell my story in temples. But they leave this part out.”
He stood. Towered.
“When the war ended, and Ram walked back through Ayodhya’s gates… he smiled. But I knew what he left behind.”
Makardvach asked, “What?”
Hanuman’s voice broke.
“His faith in people. And I helped break it.”
The world shifted.
They now stood in Ayodhya’s throne room.
Silent.
Empty.
Ram sat alone at the end of the hall.
Hanuman stood before him.
“You don’t trust her, do you?” he asked gently.
“You still see Lanka in her eyes, even though she chose you.”
“Do you see me the same way?”
Ram finally looked up.
“No.
I see you worse.
Because you knew better.
And still… you followed.”
Makardvach turned to Hanuman.
“You were loyal.”
Hanuman shook his head.
“I was obedient. There’s a difference.”
Another shift.
Now a field of bones.
Vanara bones.
Hanuman stood alone.
“Not every order I obeyed was just.
Not every village we destroyed was wicked.
Not every silence was strength.”
He turned to Makardvach.
And smiled. Bitter. But real.
“I give you my blessing.
Not because you carry my power.
But because you ask more than I did.
Because you hesitate.”
He touched Makardvach’s forehead.
“A god is not born from power.
But from what he does when he’s wrong.
Now go.
Make a better name.”
The vision dissolved.
Makardvach stood once again in the temple. Alone.
Not heavier.
Not lighter.
Just… known.
The tree-temple was silent.
Even the roots, once glowing, now dimmed.
Megha watched him step away from the dais.
His eyes were open. But distant.
He moved slowly.
Deliberately.
Rishabh stepped forward. “Did you see him?”
Makardvach nodded. “He was not what I expected.”
Akshay tried a half-smile. “Let me guess. Big muscles. Bigger burden?”
Makardvach didn’t laugh.
He walked into the center of the hollow.
Raised the weapon in his hand—the half-gada, half-staff.
Planted it into the earth.
The carvings around the chamber lit up.
Each glowing in faint gold. Forming a ring of oaths.
Then the air spoke.
“You’ve passed the Trial.
But power without a vow is just another fire waiting to burn.”
Makardvach knelt.
Not out of submission.
Out of intention.
And spoke:
“I vow to carry this strength
not to punish,
but to protect.
To wield the fire
only when words have failed,
and when silence would be a worse betrayal.
To remember every soul—
even those who fell on the wrong side—
is still a child of someone’s prayer.
And when the time comes,
if this strength asks for more than I am—
I will give it freely.
Not as a hero.
But as a Vanara.”
The carvings blazed.
Then dimmed.
Above him, a final glyph formed.
The sigil of Anjaneya.
Branded not in fire.
But in memory.
Rishabh bowed. “The oath is sealed.”
Megha stared in awe.
Akshay whispered, “You look taller.”
Makardvach turned.
And for the first time—
Smiled.
The roots of the temple parted.
Not like wood.
Like veins.
Golden tendrils curled back, revealing a stairway carved of crystal and ash.
Rishabh inhaled sharply. “The Vajra Forge. I thought it was myth.”
Makardvach didn’t speak.
He descended.
Each step felt lighter.
Like gravity had stepped aside in reverence.
At the base: a forge chamber.
Open sky burned overhead—though they were still in Paatal Lok.
Stars spun in unfamiliar constellations.
Clouds hovered in meditative spirals.
In the center: a platform floating above liquid silver.
Beside it: the weapon, suspended.
Awaiting rebirth.
Makardvach stepped onto the stone.
Light flared.
Glyphs circled him.
“One truth must be surrendered,” said the forge.
“One lie must be accepted.”
“I’m ready.”
The first vision:
His father.
Not strong.
Not noble.
Just broken.
Dying.
Begging the gods.
“Truth or illusion?”
“Truth.”
It burned.
But it passed.
The second vision:
Makardvach crowned. Worshipped. Heroic.
A perfect savior.
“Lie or future?”
He smiled.
“Lie.”
The vision shattered.
The weapon descended.
Glowing.
Whole.
Makardvach placed both hands on it.
“As strength was given to me,
so will I give it forward.”
The weapon pulsed.
Split.
Then rejoined as one seamless form:
A double-ended staff—gada on one side, storm-spear on the other.
It named itself:
Vānaprakāśa.
The Light of the Forest Warrior.
Makardvach stepped off the forge.
Not glowing.
Not divine.
Just whole.
And the sky above?
It rumbled.
The storm now belonged to him.
Elsewhere.
Far beneath even Kalnemi’s throne…
A single drop of blood struck bone.
It hissed.
A name awakened.
“Raktanjali.”
She stirred in her womb of bone and sinew.
Her eyes still stitched shut.
But she smiled.
“You lit the flame again, little prince.
Let’s see if you can survive when the water comes.”
Crimson mist seeped into Kalnemi’s citadel.
He smiled.
“Let the witch sing.”
Back at the forge, lightning cracked overhead.
Megha’s scrolls ignited with glyphs.
She read aloud:
“The Shivnadi is shifting.
Its cage is thinning.
The river of endings… wants out.”
Akshay checked his sensors. “Multiple energy surges across the eastern rim. Something’s breathing.”
Rishabh bowed his head. “Raktanjali has begun the ritual.”
Lanka unsheathed both blades. “No more waiting, then.”
Makardvach lifted Vānaprakāśa.
The weapon howled with mantra and wind.
He turned to the team.
“Then we go now.
Before the water wakes hungry.”